


State of the Union

by sceptick



Category: Glee
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/F, Orgasm Delay/Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 14:15:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sceptick/pseuds/sceptick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> <i>“Brittany!” Santana snaps. “I want to have sex with you, okay? I want to press you up against your nice, big, official desk, and nail you down into it. It’s not a question of me wanting it. I’m saying, are you ordering me. Madam President.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	State of the Union

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to lj in December of 2011. Many thanks, as ever, to my wondrous beta elvabarr. In case any of y'all were wondering, I don't own Glee.

 

 

When Brittany spins in her chair, she can see her whole office in the blink of an eye. Sometimes she wonders if maybe she’s not the one spinning at all, and really it’s the walls that are moving around her. Moving walls are an earthquake hazard. She’ll have to put that on the list of things to fix now that she’s president.

She has her own office now. It’s decorated in Wikipedia printouts about William McKinley, feminist magazines she’s borrowed from her Aunt Sally (who lives in California, votes for the Democrats, and could totally win the World Record for most cat hair in a single living room), and American flags with her face embroidered into the red and white stripes. Her list of things to fix is framed and hung above her enormous desk.

Anyway, it looks  _awesome_. Totally presidential.

She’s starting to get slightly dizzy when Santana enters the room. Well, maybe ‘sneaks’ is a better word – she opens the door a crack, slides in backwards in order to keep her eyes on the hallway, then closes the door as quietly as possible. It’d be great, like something out of a spy movie like Mission Impossible (and Santana would make a really hot Ethan Hunt, even though she’s not a guy), if it weren’t for the fact that Brittany  _really_  needs to oil the hinges. They let out an almighty creak, and Santana rolls her eyes with an exasperated sigh.

“My office used to be a janitor’s closet,” Brittany says, halting herself by catching onto one of the legs of her nice, big desk with her foot. “I don’t think he took very good care of it. It complains a lot. Does this mean I’m back in the closet?”

“Britt,” Santana says, “I’m sure those glitter-me-gay posters will balance it out. Don’t sweat it.”

Brittany grins with relief, and resumes spinning. Now, every time she whips around, she sees Santana’s face, and it makes her smile because Santana’s face is surrounded by patriotic Brittany faces. It’s like a metatarsal or something. You know, all symbolic and stuff.

“So why were you sneaking?” Brittany asks.

“Making sure I wasn’t followed or anything. That freak Jacob Ben Israel has spies everywhere. I’d say he was trading sexual favors for the kind of info he’s getting these days, but then I remember his face, and there’s just no way in hell.”

Brittany frowns, and plants a foot on the ground to bring herself to a stop facing Santana. “Why would it matter if you were followed?”

“Listen, Britt, just because you’re out there embracing your inner unicorn, with your thigh highs and your dancing and your – well, it doesn’t mean  _I_  have to. They have enough dirt on me already,” Santana says, and she crosses her arms. Brittany thinks she’s probably trying to look tough, but she just looks hurt.

“You could dance if you wanted to,” Brittany promises. She rolls forward to grab Santana’s arms, and she uncrosses them to link their fingers together. “You know, my first act as president was to outlaw violence, because you know I’ve always wanted to st-- ”

“Gay one and gay two are already calling me your First Lady. To my face.” Santana scowls even harder and says, “Kurt’s just pissed that you won the election, but I’m pretty sure his Mr. Rogers look-a-like thinks it’s a sign of respect. It’s not just about violence, Brittany. There’s other stuff -- I can handle myself, but I can’t handle that.”

“But, Santana, you are my First Lady,” Brittany says, confused.

Santana untwists their fingers, pulling away. “Damn it, Britt, I’m not! I’m Head Cheerio, okay, not Head Lesbian Consort or something.”

“But – but if I made a list of all the people I like, you’d be at the very top. You’d be first, Santana. Doesn’t that make you my First Lady?”

Santana just kind of gapes at her like the goldfish she’d gotten when she was twelve. She’d named him Duke Gulpy. Lord Tubbington got jealous, and Brittany’s pretty sure he killed Duke Gulpy. She still hasn’t figured out where he buried the body, though.

Brittany waits. Finally, Santana offers her a shaky smile, and Brittany holds out her hands. Santana links their pinkies together again, and everything’s good.

“Now that I’m president,” Brittany says, “I can give orders and stuff. I’m, like, the Coach Sylvester of the student body.”

“And what a body it is,” Santana leers.

Brittany winks, but doesn’t comment. That’s just Santana trying to get her feet back on steady ground after her ‘Dr. Phil moment,’ as she might call it. And, well, it’s totally true, right? Brittany’s bod is rocking.

“Okay then,” she says, leading Santana’s arm in gentle circles by her pinkie. “Well, I order you to stop being sad and start being happy. Starting now.”

“Yes ma’am, Madam President,” Santana says, leaning in and pressing a chaste kiss to her lips. Brittany’s legs spread to accommodate her, and her feet move to twist around Santana’s calves. Santana chuckles lowly. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“Hmmm,” Brittany says, momentarily distracted. She frowns up at the ceiling, then tilts her head and says, “Principal Figgins gave me all these papers about budgeting and stuff, and what does school have to do with birds anyway? It’s super confusing. So, like, if you wanted to do those --”

“Budgets, Britt-Britt, not budgies. It’s boring money stuff. Not interested,” Santana says with a roll of her eyes. She settles herself down on Brittany’s lap, straddling her in the chair, and leans in to nip at her jaw. She whispers into her ear, “Anything  _else_  I can do for you?”

“Oh.  _Oh!_ ” Brittany snaps upright in her chair, finally getting it. She smiles and says, “You could totally do me, if you want to.”

“Is that an order, Madam President?” Santana says, gazing up at Brittany with dark eyes.

Brittany frowns. “No, duh. You can’t order people to have sex with you. I mean, you can phone a number and order someone, like ordering a pizza? But you can’t  _order_  order someone to have sex with you.”

“Brittany!” Santana snaps. “I  _want_  to have sex with you, okay? I want to press you up against your nice, big, official desk, and nail you down into it. It’s not a question of me wanting it. I’m saying, are you  _ordering_  me. Madam President.”

It takes a moment, but something in the way she says it clicks with Brittany. “You mean you want me to --”

“Yeah,” Santana says. Her hands are clenching  _hard_  into Brittany’s thighs, like she’s nervous or something.

A slow smile spreads across Brittany’s smile. “I can do that.”

The way Santana’s breath hitches in her throat catches Brittany’s eye, and she leans in to kiss her neck, just once. Then Brittany relaxes back into her chair. It’s all black and leathery, and it’s super comfortable. She stole it from Principal Figgins’ office two days ago. She hopes he hasn’t noticed yet, because it’s a really sweet chair, and totally perfect for what she’s got in mind.

“Take off your top,” she says, tapping her fingers against the arm rest.

Santana smirks, and reaches behind her back. There’s a quiet zipping noise, then she’s shrugging out of the shirt of her uniform. Straddling Brittany in just her bra and her Cheerio’s skirt, she’s totally gorgeous, and Brittany just has to take a moment to stare. The bra is one of Brittany’s faves. It’s bright pink and stripy. It’s like a candy bra or something, literally. Laterally? Whatever. But the best thing about this bra is how incredibly awesome Santana’s boobs look in it.

Brittany’s always had a thing for boobs. Mercedes’ were the first she really noticed – they were bigger and better than all the other girls. Coach Beiste’s boobs were seriously awesome, too. But Santana’s are, like, in a whole other league. They might not be as big or whatever, but they have this kind of magic power that’s even  _better_. Brittany thinks they’re the Teen Titans of boobs.

“Earth to Brittany?” Santana says, waving a hand in her face. “I’m half-naked, I’m smoking hot, and your wish is my command, so freaking _wish_  for something already.”

Stalling for time, Brittany brings her hands up to grip the back of Santana’s neck and pulls her down for a kiss. Now, Brittany’s kissed a lot of people in her time. She could pretty much judge a kissing contest, that’s how much she knows about kissing. And Santana? Santana wouldn’t just  _win_  that contest, she’d blow all the other contestants out of the water. Like a crocodile punting a duck out of a pond. She’s all nipping teeth and tiny licks. She likes to pull Brittany’s lower lip into her mouth and  _suck_.

Brittany moans into the kiss, and Santana chuckles. She lowers her head to trail kisses along Brittany’s jaw, and Brittany almost lets her, but that’s not how the game works. Santana’s not allowed to start stuff, not right now – that’s Brittany’s job. She’s the president, after all. So she lifts Santana’s head by her chin until their eyes meet, and then she smiles and says, “Unzip your skirt, Santana.”

Santana says, “Yes,  _ma’am_ ,” and obeys.

Brittany likes that. She likes that so much that she spins the chair around with Santana still on her lap, and presses Santana back into the edge of her nice, big desk to get better access. With the skirt unzipped, there’s room enough for her to slide one hand down Santana’s back and into her panties, to grip her ass tightly as she kisses her. Santana’s making these breathy little moaning sounds that Brittany interprets as ‘oh, Brittany, you’re amazing and awesome and the best politician ever.’ The moans are a sign that she’s getting to Santana, like an Easy Bake oven dinging once it’s pre-heated or something, and okay, she’s definitely not going to think about food now. Unless it’s whipped cream, because there’s a time and a place for whipped cream -- that’s always and everywhere.  _Especially_  on Santana.

But, anyway, yeah, back on track now: Brittany pushes all thoughts of food out of her mind, because the whipped cream she’s been keeping in the back of her desk drawer has probably gone all smelly by now, unfortunately. She presses a kiss just above the cup of Santana’s bra, and then another, harder. She drags her teeth lightly along the curve of Santana’s breast. Santana arches into her, murmuring, “Yeah, Britt, just like that,” but Brittany shakes her head.

“I’m giving the orders now, Santana. I’m the Commander in Sheets, and that’s my job.”

Santana snorts with laughter, but it turns into a strangled groan when Brittany pushes the spandex underwear attached to her skirt aside and slides a finger along the crotch of her panties.

The perennial light bulb alights in Brittany’s head.

Here’s the thing, okay. Santana makes the  _best_  noises. She gets all hoarse and throaty and awesome, right, and it’s just the best. But Brittany’s got an idea in her head and when that happens she’s got to follow through. She has a motivational poster on her office wall that says “Commitment is key,” and she’s totally into that. So she goes with her idea.

“Santana,” she says as she presses the tip of her thumb into Santana, “don’t talk, okay? You’re not allowed to talk until I say so.”

Santana’s mouth opens like she’s going to reply, so Brittany digs her nails lightly into Santana’s ass. Santana’s eyes squeeze shut, and she stays quiet. Brittany pushes in a little deeper, because rewarding good behavior is key. That’s what Coach Sylvester always said. Her rewards were way worse than Brittany’s, though; school sex totally beats one full night of uninterrupted sleep, free from Coach Sylvester’s hose set-up. At least, school sex with someone as talented and hot as Brittany does, she thinks. (Another thing she learned from Coach Sylvester: modesty is for people who suck.)

Brittany switches her thumb for two fingers, and while Santana startles at the change, apparently she likes it because her hands come up to grip Brittany’s shoulders shakily as she rolls her hips into Brittany’s fingers. Brittany presses in and out, in and out, and Santana bites down on her lip. That’s gotta hurt, Brittany thinks, so she leans up and presses a kiss onto the bite mark. The way she shifts changes the angle of her thrusts and a moan escapes Santana, but it’s swallowed by Brittany as she kisses her hungrily, so it’s not breaking the rules, not really.

“So I can tell you to do anything right now, right?” Brittany asks as she breaks away from the kiss. She stretches her thumb up to trail it along Santana’s clit with just the tiniest bit of pressure. Santana’s eyes are shut tight with the effort of not making any noise, but her jaw clenches, and that says it all. She totally likes it. “Anything, anything, anything?” Brittany says. “Cross your heart, hope to die?”

She draws her nail gently down Santana’s clit, and Santana shudders on top of her.

“I can’t read your mind, Santana, I can only read Lord Tubbington’s. And Rachel’s, sometimes, but that’s because she can read minds a little too.”

Santana’s eyes open and she scowls heavily, which Brittany takes to mean ‘kindly don’t talk about Rachel Berry while I’m riding your fingers, please and thank you.’ Since it’s Santana, the  _please-and-thank-you_  part probably isn’t even close to what she’s thinking, but manners are important, so Brittany adds them in.

She continues, “So yeah. No telephony. You’re gonna have to nod yes or no, because if you don’t, how am I going to know what you’re thinking? How will I know if I can or can’t tell you what to do?” She strokes Santana’s clit again, and again, faster now. “Don’t you want me to tell you what to do, Santana? You can nod yes or no, and then I’ll know, and then I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything.”

Santana’s thighs clench tightly, squeezing Brittany’s legs, and Brittany giggles a little. She draws her thumb in tight little circles, up and around Santana’s clit, and finally Santana nods jerkily. Her hands squeeze into Brittany’s shoulders, and the burn Brittany feels up there is almost like the burn she feels down below. Just  _watching_  Santana rock into her fingers is such a turn-on.

“Sweet,” Brittany whispers, and she curls her fingers inside Santana, who whines deep in the back of her throat. “Shhh. Don’t break the rules, Santana. This isn’t like playing  _Sorry_ , okay? Like, breaking the rules in  _Sorry_  is fine because it’s a stupid game, anyway. This isn’t stupid.”

Santana meets her eyes at that, and she smiles softly. She nods. Brittany grins, because of course Santana gets it. Santana gets her.

Brittany starts rubbing faster, harder, timing it to match the thrust of her fingers. “Okay then,” Britt says, “I’ve got an order for you, Santana. Are you ready?”

Santana tries to glare at her, but it doesn’t really work as well as usual. Something about the way she’s clinging to Brittany takes away from the effect. Still, a glare is a glare, and that’s not very nice considering Brittany’s got her fingers all the way up in her business. She presses down on Santana’s clit, and drags her thumb down it. Santana loses the glare.

“Good. Okay. So, my order is -- ” Brittany speeds up her thrusts, and Santana’s hips rock against her desperately. Her hands are so tight on Britt’s shoulders there’s no way she won’t have bruises in the morning. Santana’s practically shaking on top of her, like, she’s seriously close. Brittany smiles wickedly. “You can’t come until I say so.”

Santana’s jaw drops, and she gets the most adorable “bitch-please” face Brittany’s ever seen. She’s really hot when she’s bitchy. Then Brittany  _twists_ , way deep in, and that wipes the snark right off of Santana’s face. She pants for breath, points her gaze away from Brittany to the wall on her left. She’s trying to distract herself, and that’s totally not cool, so Brittany says, “Oh, and you have to look at me.”

Santana obeys, rolling her eyes, and Brittany digs her nails into Santana’s ass again. When Santana’s hips snap forward, she smoothes out the scratch marks, and Santana just – she shivers with all her body. She’s gasping, now, her chest heaving, and it makes Brittany want to lick her all over. So she does.

She dips her head forward, and licks a stripe along Santana’s collarbone. Brittany can feel Santana’s pulse fluttering beneath her skin. When she mouths at the top of Santana’s breast, just above that super cute pink bra, Santana’s fingers scrabble weakly against her shoulders; then Santana’s lifting one hand off of Brittany’s shoulder even as the other one squeezes tighter. When Brittany glances up, curious at the change, she sees that Santana’s biting into her own palm, trying to distance herself from the low, needy burn Brittany knows she must be feeling. Judging by the flush in her cheeks and the jerky, uncontrolled way she’s riding Britt’s fingers, it isn’t working so great.

“Hold on, Santana,” she whispers into Santana’s neck, “Just a bit longer. Just a bit longer and then I’ll say you can come and everything will be awesome. You’re totally gonna love it.”

Santana shudders around her fingers, and Brittany presses,  _hard_ , down on her clit. “Not yet,” she says.

Sweat glistens on Santana’s chest. Brittany dips down to lick it away, and gets distracted by the way Santana’s nipples are visibly pushing at the thin fabric of her bra. She licks at the one closest to her. Santana’s nails drag along her shoulder blade. Her palm isn’t doing a very good job of muffling her moans; she should fire it and get a new one, Brittany thinks.

“Soon,” Brittany mutters into Santana’s skin. “You’ve been really good, Santana. Super good. So good that I’m gonna make you come  _even harder_  as a reward.” She gives her fingers a good twist, and Santana bucks toward her. “Soon, Santana, soon.”

“Damn it, Britt, come on,” Santana growls, and that is so not fair at all. No talking was one of the rules, right? Santana  _promised_. Brittany frowns at Santana, but Santana only smirks. Clearly, there’s only one thing to do. “I said no talking,” Brittany whispers, reluctantly drawing her hand away from Santana’s ass and placing it over her mouth. “When your President speaks, you listen. That’s why they invented the news.”

Santana’s eyes darken, and then Brittany feels something hot and wet sliding against her palm. She whimpers, licking her lips in response. Brittany can feel Santana’s triumphant smirk under her hand. The smirk vanishes, though, when Brittany pinches Santana’s clit. Santana’s breath huffs out hotly against Brittany’s palm, and her eyes squeeze shut. She starts to say something, but cuts herself off, and Brittany is startled by the way it turns her on, that Santana is doing what she’d said.

Santana’s not going to last much longer, though, Brittany can tell that much. She’s tense, and she’s rolling her hips to meet every thrust of Brittany’s fingers.  _Inside_ , Brittany can feel her shaking. It’s so hot Brittany could die, seriously.

It’s not over until the fab lady comes, though, and Brittany’s got a few more tricks up her mini.

She stills, deep inside of Santana, and Santana’s eyes snap up to meet hers. She looks so pissed that Brittany giggles a little. Brittany circles Santana’s clit with her thumb, sort of to reassure her but mostly really just to tease her, and Santana moans wordlessly into her palm, and, okay, that’s super hot. She’s  _got_  to make Santana do that again.

With her fingers still mostly still, she drags their tips up and down the tiniest bit inside of Santana. Santana makes another desperate sound, and nips at the hand covering her mouth. There’s sweat clinging to her hairline now, and Brittany leans up and kisses it away, still rubbing her fingertips up and down, up and down.

One of Santana’s hands is still on Brittany’s shoulder, but the other has trailed down and settled on Brittany’s hip. As Brittany continues teasing her, Santana’s fingers dig into her hipbone like it’s the only thing keeping her together, and that’s not fun at all. Santana’s not supposed to keep it together -- she’s supposed to fall apart on Britt’s fingers. That’s how it’s gonna happen, and no amount of awesome waist-squeezing is going to stop that.

With that thought in mind, Brittany takes her hand off of Santana’s mouth. She brings it down to her waist, threads her fingers through Santana’s. Her palm is still damp from where Santana licked it, and it sticks to Santana’s hand. Santana glances up, catches Brittany’s eyes. She’s panting, open-mouthed, making these low little noises now that her mouth is free. Brittany grins at her, and then nods once. She whispers, “Okay, go,” then leans in and presses their lips together. As she does, she twists her fingers once, pulls out, and thrusts back in, pressing her thumb down into Santana’s clit at the same time.

Santana groans into Brittany’s mouth and comes, shaking, around Brittany’s fingers. Brittany bites Santana’s lower lip, once, twice, three times, for luck, as Santana breaks.

When Santana finally slumps against her, Brittany pulls her hand out and winds her arms around Santana’s back. Santana shivers, but she smiles, and kisses Brittany softly. It’s a rare thing, Santana being soft, so Brittany tucks it away into her memory treasure chest alongside Lord Tubbington’s fifth birthday party and her performance of Tik Tok.

“ _Damn_ , Britt,” Santana says, her voice hoarse, “if you ever decide to run for something bigger than president of this crap school, you’ve got my vote.”

Brittany presses their foreheads together and smiles. It’s like they’re unicorns touching horns. She probably shouldn’t think that, because unicorns are Kurt’s thing, and she kinda thinks she got them copyrighted in his name while she was his campaign manager. That might’ve been a dream, though.

“I’m counting on it,” she replies with a small grin, and Santana grins too. They stay like that for another moment, with their arms wrapped around each other and their faces pressed close, and then Santana’s up and swinging off of her, adjusting her skirt and fixing her hair.

“Well, if I’m your First Lady, that means I get to make laws too, right?” Santana says. “I’m gonna ban knee socks. And granny sweaters. And Rachel freaking Berry.”

Brittany smiles. “We’ll add that to the list of things to fix,” she promises. She searches her desk for a second, then finds her pad of post-its and a pen. She scribbles down “Ban Rachel Berry,” and passes it to Santana.

Santana stares at it for a moment, then her face breaks into a smile. She strides over to the framed list and slaps the post-it onto it. When she pulls away, it sticks, neon bright against the glass.

Brittany comes up and rests her chin on Santana’s shoulder. While Santana had been putting up their post-it, she’d found a pad of stickers in her desk drawer, next to the whipped cream. Now, she pulls off a gold star, and sticks it next to Rachel’s name. Santana snickers, and Brittany grins triumphantly. She loves that sound a lot.

She’s not  _actually_  going to ban Rachel. Rachel’s already suspended, anyway, although she’ll be back soon enough. But it feels just like old times, standing together, making fun of Rachel’s fashion sense. It feels all light and easy, and everything recently has been so hard. Especially for Santana.

Well, she decides, that’s going to change. She’s president now, isn’t she? Her word is law. She’s going to make sure things never suck like this again. Her and Santana, they deserve to be happy, and that’s how it’s going to happen.

Brittany glances at her “Commitment is key” poster and smiles. 

 

 


End file.
